


Claymore Shortfic + Poetry

by NumberA



Category: Claymore
Genre: Multi, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:36:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6288418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NumberA/pseuds/NumberA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of shorts that don't quite stand on their own assembled here so I don't lose track of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _Claymore, any, hunting yoma in the snow_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt _Claymore, any, hunting yoma in the snow_

  Ravens churruk  Squirrels chatter  
  Silent sounds  Surround the hunter  
  Wise in ways  Of winter-fastness  
  Hate-strength hidden  Claw-spear hungry

Up the white-path  Armour clanking  
Wet and weary  Wades the quarry  
Bathed in breath-fog  Bearing iron  
Bright with blood-scent  Senses tree-blind

Like a falcon  From the sun’s-eye  
Swift and deadly  Strikes the killer  
Slicing prey-flesh  Spilling life-red  
Closing swift  For consummation

Gold-strength springs  From silver fetters  
Half-breed hands  Wield cruel head-taker  
Antlers spear  And hoof-strikes splinter  
Wolves do not  A great stag worry

Through the black-white  Birch-spruce thickets  
Trails are left  By lesser creatures  
Down these half-paths  Flees the hunted  
Seeking shelter  From sharp long-swords

Wide-shoes race  Across dry-water  
Steel boots sink  And snag what’s hidden  
In a stone-space  Safe from edges  
Turns the wounded  To the weapon

Locked in foe-gaze  Like two tree-cats  
Quest and seeker  Crouch watch-waiting  
Eyes engolden  As the sun fails  
Teeth grow long  Like dark tree-shadows

Quick and sharp  As lake-ice cracking  
From the safe-space  Springs the fighter  
Mice and rabbits  Run and cower  
Wolf meets dog  With death and snapping

In a swirl  Of snow and metal  
Life is hewn  And headless corpses  
Now freeze fast  In fading daylight  
Flesh made food  For hungry ravens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shout-out to my sister both for her, as usual, excellent proofreading and for telling me to read Beowulf.


	2. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt _Claymore, Jean, she can't help wondering what it would have been like to fly._

It's not usually like this.

In my other dreams there's silence, or the rush of wind over membrane, not this metal-insect howling that seems to come from everywhere. Other times I've felt the air against my body, lifting me, I'm not in a soft seat in the hot sun with a wall of circles, sticks, and buttons between me and the sky. 

But the hands, human hands, on the half-wheel in front of me are mine, and just beyond the glass the world stretches out to the horizon circle and up into boundless blue. And when I wake to cold, dark earth it's all I can do not to cry.


	3. Mettle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Claymore OC named Petra who likes to write poetry. This is one of hers.

My eyes are plated pewter  
My organs cast from lead  
There's copper in my bloodstream  
And tin inside my head  
My tears are molten silver  
My anger beaten gold  
There's steel between my fingers  
And iron in my soul


	4. Strange Custom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble I wrote during a car trip to pass the time. As with most of what I write, it comes from a conversation with [SilverDagger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDagger/pseuds/SilverDagger).

     Marie Oates was dipping candles in her workshop when heard a crunch and clatter and felt a chill. She glanced towards the doorway as a figure appeared within it, dark against the afternoon. It took the space of a gasp and start to resolve into a tall young woman, clad in armor with a too-large sword sheathed crosswise on her back. A claymore. Marie had heard tell of such creatures, but had never actually seen one. The claymore fixed her with those awful silver eyes and said:  
     "Good day. Do ye know where I might find mistress Oates?"  
     Icy fear coursed through Marie's veins. "That's me," she answered, unable to keep a quaver from her voice. It was true, she knew, that the half-demon slayers were forbidden to kill humans, but the tinker who'd told her this had been of the mind that such a rule wouldn't exist without good cause. The witch-woman bowed.  
     "I hear ye sell hair pomades," she said. Dumbstruck, Marie pointed to a table beneath a window on which rested her wares: honeycomb, candles, and a few small jars of secret blends of fat, oil, wax, and perfume. Most were her own work, but some came from the few peddlers that still traveled from town to town. It was her habit, when men and women came asking after such things, to talk of her mother who taught her the art of making them, or of the rare scents and fine oils she used, but the sight of the creature before her drove all her words away.  
     It did not take long. The claymore didn't go through them one-by-one as a human might but gave the lot a brief glance before reaching for one, raising it briefly to her face, and, without so much as opening it, turning back to Marie and asking:  
     "How much for this?"  
     "T-two hundred beras," she replied, able to speak at last. The slayer nodded and drew the sum from a small leather pouch. Laying it on the table, she bid Marie good day again, and left. Afterwards, when Marie went to gather the money, she noticed the scent the claymore had chosen was gorse.


	5. All's Well That Ends Well

     She came out of nowhere, swooping and ducking like some kind of bird. Right away, I knew from her yoki that it was Cassandra. Graceful, mysterious Cassandra who always looked so lonely. Even the first time I saw her I wanted to go up to her and say "Hi," and ask what was wrong and if there was anything, anything at all, I could do to make her smile. But I'm a low-ranked nobody and she's a living legend so it wasn't really practical.  
      Anyway, watching her fight answered the question of what was wrong. It is a pretty weird technique, actually, but honestly what really threw me was being a whole lot less dead than I thought I'd be a minute before and the fact that it was _Cassandra_ who was saving my life. I stood there, staring, as she finished off the Awakened and started wiping the dirt off her face. She has this really unusual habit of using her arms instead of her hands to clean herself. It was so adorable and unexpected and I was about to laugh when I realized she looked exactly like my cat Benny from, y'know, _before_. I know it's a bit nuts, and honestly I don't understand it either, but that was the moment she went from being "out of my league" to "slightly less necessary than air".  
    After that I remember clinging to her, thanking her for saving my life and the gods for bringing us together, while she stood there like "Who is this random and why is she crying into my boobs?" Looking back it was all kind of super awkward, but it's worked out so much better than either of us ever dared imagine, and I certainly don't have any regrets. Well, I do wish she could purr but, hey, nothing's perfect ( _purr_ -fect!).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First person is a great choice for characters whose names you don't actually know ;) Also, why is there not more fic of these two? They're completely adorable and basically canon. What gives?


End file.
